


By the Twisting of the Metal In the Vein

by Jayne L (JayneL)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-30
Updated: 2011-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 02:10:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayneL/pseuds/Jayne%20L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole night, Sam doesn't see Lucifer once. He's grateful for the headache.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By the Twisting of the Metal In the Vein

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through 'The Girl Next Door'. Filling in some blanks between 7.02 and 7.03.

They've been at Rufus's cabin less than a day when Sam wakes up, blinks rapidly under the shaft of sunlight streaming in through the bedroom's little window, then rolls half-off the musty bed and vomits on the floor. The pain behind his eyes sears out almost everything else--he can barely hear Dean cursing, the noise of his blundering rush to reach the blinds, Bobby running in from the other room--and for a disoriented moment he thinks he must've exorcised Lucifer himself to have a headache this bad.

Then he hears an echo of laughter and remembers, in a rush that makes him curl up tight and trembling on the bed, how impossible an explanation that is.

He spends the rest of the day with his back turned to the window and a cold cloth pressed over his eyes, listening to Dean's drug-clumsy voice filling in the blank of what happened between the Leviathan putting him down at the salvage yard and their arrival at Rufus's cabin. He wants to sleep but knows he can't--gets a poke in the hip from Dean's crutch if he lies too still for too long--and when the sun finally sinks low in the sky and evening turns the room bearably dim, it's a relief just to be able to open his eyes.

Bobby takes over for the overnight shift, sits in the dark with Sam and drinks coffee strong enough that just the smell of it's enough to help keep him awake--which has to do, because Bobby won't let him have even a sip. "Caffeine and concussions don't mix, Sam."

Sam doesn't mind. The whole night, he doesn't see Lucifer once; he's grateful for the headache.

* * *

The sunrise doesn't trigger another migraine. Sam names the president for Bobby and both lead singers of AC/DC for Dean, which gets him permission, finally, to go to sleep.

There's no comfortable way to rest his head, some part of the pillow always hitting some part of the deep, purpling bruise that wraps around half his skull and shoots dull pain right through his jaw, but he's _exhausted_. He's out in under a minute, and sleeps like the dead.

* * *

He wakes to nighttime, dark and still. After a few moments to get his bearings, he swings himself upright--waits for the headrush, blessedly brief, to settle--then pads out of the tiny bedroom.

Even in the dark--nothing to see by but weak moonlight, filtered through trees before it reaches the small, grimy windows--he finds Dean easily, sitting on the couch not three steps from the bedroom door. His back's to Sam, propped up against one armrest; he's obviously awake, but strangely motionless and weirdly tense, with all his attention focused on his bare feet at the other end of the couch. It takes Sam a minute to realise that he's pressing the foot of his broken leg against the other armrest, hard.

"Dean!" Sam rounds the end of the couch and drops to his knees beside him, but Dean doesn't turn his attention from his foot--just keeps staring at it, concentrating. Pushing like it's an academic exercise, like he can't really feel what he's doing at all. Sam sees the pill bottle clutched in Dean's hand, and his mouth goes dry. "Dean, stop it. Stop."

Dean does, his whole body going slack, his breath rushing shakily out of him. There's sweat on his forehead, his upper lip; his face is pale, so pale in the darkness as he turns it towards Sam. His eyes are wide, red-rimmed and glassy, and Sam wonders with a twist of dread in his gut just how many pills he's taken. "We're fucked, Sam," he rasps. He sounds like he's been screaming for weeks. "We are so, so fucked."

And Sam just shakes his head, because Dean can't do this now. Yeah, he's lost too much too quickly--Ben and Lisa and now Cas, and those are just the most recent names on the list--and the immediate threats that have kept him distracted through the past few days may be as under control as they're gonna get, but he can't fall apart like this. He _can't_ , because Sam still needs him. Because if Dean crumbles, so does any chance Sam has of keeping track of what's real.

Because Lucifer's _here_ , in that all-of-a-sudden way he always is, a dark silhouette peeling away from the far wall and sauntering happily closer, making Sam's throat close and his heart trip, and Dean told Sam to believe in him, so Sam _has to_. So Dean--can't. Do this.

"No, we're not," Sam says, leaning in and fixing his gaze on Dean's face, willing himself not to let his eyes dart back to the shadows to track Lucifer's progress across the room. "We're not, Dean, okay? We're _not_."

Dean just blinks at him, slow and stoned--Sam can't tell if it's the drugs or the pain or the despair--and reaches out with his empty hand, claps it on Sam's shoulder. Slides it restlessly up the side of his neck, warm and heavy, and then Sam's hissing sharply through his teeth and trying not shrink back because Dean's hit his bruise, his fingers on the base of his skull, his thumb digging blunt at the bolt of his jaw. The ache is blinding, thick and hot all through his head, his bones, his _brain_ throbbing with it. Sam blinks against the grey spots that burst in front of his eyes, puts out a hand to steady himself; when his palm comes down on something hard and dry and solid, he clenches his hand on it instinctively.

And Dean makes this _noise_ , this raw sound Sam never wants to hear again, and his hand spasms on Sam's skull, and Sam realises through the pain that he just slammed his own hand down on Dean's cast, is now clawing at it like he's trying to tear right through. "Fuck, Dean, sorry--" he bites out, and lets go, but Dean just makes that noise again. And then Dean's other hand is on his, stopping it before Sam can pull it away, damp palm flattening to his wrist and pushing _down_. Pushing his hand back onto the cast, pushing _hard_.

"Sammy--" Dean sounds wrecked, and he _grinds_ their hands down onto his leg. As he does, his grip slips on Sam's neck, fingers curling through his hair until Sam feels the blunt dig of nails. Compared to the ache that pounded through his temples under Dean's earlier hold, it's nothing; he barely registers the fading pain before he feels Lucifer close at his back, sending terror like ice through his veins.

With a choked-off whimper, Sam turns his head and leans, angles his bruised skull against the solid pressure of Dean's hand the same way he feels Dean tilting his broken leg up against his palm. And maybe Dean understands, because he splays his fingers and tightens his grip and the agony it brings is such a relief Sam _sobs_.

"He gone?" Dean asks, low and rough. His hand still pins Sam's to his leg, but as the grey swims from Sam's vision, he can see Dean's eyes are a little clearer now, a little calmer.

He sucks in a breath. Holds onto the reality of the pain in his head. "Yeah. Yeah, he's gone now."

"Good." And all at once Dean lets him go, both hands suddenly just _gone_ , the one on his leg moving with enough force to knock Sam's hand right off Dean's cast.

It leaves Sam swaying on his knees, anchorless. He plants his hands on the edge of the couch to keep himself upright, and stares. "Dean--"

"Don't, Sam." Dean's not looking at him; he's focused on his pill bottle, on digging it out from where it fell between his leg and a cushion, popping off the top and shaking out two pills, tossing them into his mouth and swallowing them dry. He keeps his gaze lowered when he's done, as he busies himself with arranging his leg so he can lie down. "Just don't, okay."

And that's Dean under control again--or as close as Sam thinks he's going to get, for now.

So Sam nods, and says, "Okay," and doesn't.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Resurrection', by Moist.


End file.
